


Beg for Trouble

by Dragonpie



Series: Reader Fics [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Hair Pulling, Height difference, M/M, Open Ending, Praise Kink, Present Tense, Second Person, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spanking, Table Sex, Teasing, big dick dyn, bratty behaviour, like twice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonpie/pseuds/Dragonpie
Summary: “I didn’t expect to see you again,” you say, to what appears to be an empty room. You’d heard him coming down the stairs; quiet and hesitant. He’s been standing on the bottom step for the better part of five minutes. “Miss me that much, did you?”“I don’t know why I came back.”-------------------------It's been a few months since your encounter with a Mandalorian, and life has pretty much gone back to normal. You'd never expected to see him again, and although internally you weren't okay with that, like everything you had accepted there was nothing you could do.Of course, when the very same Mandalorian shows up one night you're determined to make the most of it.Basically a sex fic that puts YOU in the drivers seat of this male presenting vehicle.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Male Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: Reader Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816252
Comments: 4
Kudos: 116





	Beg for Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mochaaaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochaaaa/gifts).



> So, again! This fic was created for a very special friend of mine. i don't have a lot to say about it at the moment. i had originally intended my reader fic to be a once off but this idea simply wouldn't leave me alone and now the reader character has his own mind and soul.
> 
> REMINDER: i actually worked super hard to get rid of any typos so if there are any that remain please do not point them out thank you.

The bar hasn’t been this busy in weeks – not since the harvest festival last month, and even then it was only a handful of local villagers who made the trek. You wonder, while pouring yet another drink for a group of drunken men, if your aunt had just invited all her friends over so the place wouldn’t be empty.

Not with _him_ around.

She had tried all her tricks to make him leave this time around – insisted the inn weas fully booked, and when you’d helpfully pointed out all rooms were available, she had tried to insist the inn was closed.

In the end he and his strange child had rented a room for the night and you had been only too happy to show them up! Only, your aunt insisted on doing it herself. She’d been having a bad day; paranoia playing games with her mind all afternoon. Still you appreciate the thought that she might want to protect you; however unwanted it is.

It was only an hour after the Mandalorian checked in, that your aunts friends started arriving. She’s friends with all the locals, and they’ll often stop by throughout the month for a few drinks or a quick meal, but not all at once.

You knew something was wrong when the second group arrived, and by the time the dining area was half full you knew you’d be stuck behind the bar all night. Not that you mind. Pouring drinks and serving smiles can be fun all on it’s own. A little hearty flirting with some of the older men – gentle touches to hands or wrists, a subtle change in voice, even leaning _slightly_ over the bar – is it’s own kind of trouble. gentle. Safe. They tip well and don’t expect anything more than a courtesy laugh towards their stupid jokes.

It’s the younger men you have to watch out for. The men who might fancy themselves as gifts from the stars – graciously bestowed upon an otherwise remarkable planet.

You find them unappealing – although just _think_ of the kind of mess you could make in five quiet minutes. You try not to talk too long, and don’t smile too sweet.

These men will bite at anything that breathes, and that attention really is too easy for you. You crave a challenge – some fresh excitement in you otherwise captive life. Even if the cage never truly unlocks you can still reach out through the bars.

The sun has only just set and your feet are aching. You feel the atmosphere of the room change – a subtle shift from drunken mirth, into a guarded quiet. You feel eyes on your for just a second before it’s gone, and you can only barely see over the heads of several patrons gesturing for your attention.

It’s been a couple long months but the Mandalorian sits down at the very same table and your stomach flutters as you think of all the games you could play. All the trouble you can get into.

“Hey, sweetheart,” a hand closes around your wrist and it takes every ounce of effort not to recoil in disgust.

The local men tend to have that effect on you. They’re always demanding; always rude ad brash. But your aunt is watching – you can feel her eyes on you – and so you force on your brightest smile.

“Hello darling, what can I get for you?” you ask, gently pulling your wrist away.

You want to disappear behind the bar. This is the reason you’re here. This isn’t supposed to happen and when it does you’re often at a loss of what to do.

He leans over the bar slightly – you can smell the alcohol on his breath – and gives you a once over. The crooked smile on his face suggests he’d be doing you a favour by taking you upstairs and giving you a nice, hard fuck.

You disagree – you’re not quite in the mood for a solid thirty seconds of passion.

“Are you going to order – I’ve got other customers waiting,” you say with an unpleasant bite to your voice the smile never leaves your face and you feel the pinpricks of attention against your skin. You look over this mans shoulder and sure enough the Mandalorian’s head is turned in your direction.

“They can keep waiting,” he says, and the leering expression he wears assures you he’s too caught up in his own swelling ego, to bother with your snark. You can get in a lot of trouble saying the wrong things to the wrong people. “I’ve got a special request – something I’m sure you won’t wanna refuse.”

The way he looks at you has your stomach boiling – indignant rage bubbling just beneath he surface of your skin – but not once does your smile slip. You allow your eyes to wander over towards the Mandalorian as a charming laugh escapes your throat. You play it up, throwing your head back.

“I doubt my aunt would be very happy if she found out,” you say, pushing away from the bar just slightly. There were some lovely older men to your left running low on liquor – they’re a safe bet for pleasant conversation and a bit of harmless fun.

You try to walk away when he grabs your wrist and pulls you back. You’re pulled against the bar, and have to hold back a sneer – the urge to bare your sharp teeth stronger than usual.

“So don’t tell her,” he says, voice low with the kind of danger you would have been tempted by on your home planet – even here, a few months ago, you may have given in to the useless hunger that settled in the pit of your stomach. But here and now, it makes your jaw lock; muscles aching with an urge to bite back.

“What she doesn’t now, can’t hurt her,” he says. He leans in even closer – close enough that you can feel his hot breath against your ear. _“Think about it.”_

You rip your hand away and pull back to meet his eyes – a smile that goes beyond anything friendly. For a second he sees you – and you wonder in the back of your mind if men like this ever really see _people_ , or if they only see the shells.

You don’t lower your voice or change your tone when you say, “Oh I’ll be thinking about it,” and it’s not exactly a lie, but you don’t feel his eyes on you as you start to walk away.

You try to keep your focus on the next set of customers but as you fall into an easy rhythm you can still feel it. Small pin pricks against your skin – the visceral evidence of interest. And when you turn your head just slightly to check you can see the Mandalorian with his head turned in your direction. And so it continues for as long as the bar stays open. You’re not able to step out for even a second; not for a personal break and much less to converse with customers on the other side of the room. It only adds to the excitement.

The Mandalorian retreats upstairs once the crowd starts thinning, but an awful feeling in the pit of your stomach tells you this isn’t over.

* * *

The dining room s quiet, hours later when scores of rowdy men and boisterous women have gone to bed for the night. The lights are all off but you’ve left the curtains open; allowing a stream of light from the planets brightest moon.

You’re seated a top the bar, leant back on both hands while your feet dangle high above the ground. You’ve had dreams like this before – day dreams floating through your mind during long hours cleaning behind the bar, ensuring every bottle and every glass is accounted for, and always counting twice. You’d had dreams of being swept up off your feet; saved from the torture of every day the same. The protection of the mundane.

You let out a sigh into the empty room.

 _Almost_ empty.

It’s been along day, a long week – a long existence. What’s the harm in dreaming just a little longer?

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” you say, to what appears to be an empty room. You’d heard him coming down the stairs; quiet and hesitant. He’s been standing on the bottom step for the better part of five minutes. “Miss me that much, did you?”

“I don’t know why I came back.”

The answer disappoints you – sends a sharp cold through your chest where you bury it. That kind of feeling – feelings in general; don’t belong here on this planet.

You consider asking where he’d been, if only to hear of someplace other than this backwater hellplanet. You want to ask him what it’s like out there – what is it like to make your own decisions, and deal with the consequences.

Instead you swing your legs over the bar in one fluid movement. You push off the bar top, landing with a soft shock to your small body.

“Would you like a drink?” you ask, rustling behind the bar. You hear his footsteps heavy against the ground as he approaches you. “It’s a little difficult to be serviced when we’re busy.”

You slam town empty shot glasses against the bar, filling both with a thick black liquid. He’s in front of you now and your stomach thrills at the way he towers over you. The feeling is welcome now; the feeling of being cornered with no where to run. It’s the kind of trouble that has excitement pricking against your skin. You make a show of tipping your head back – exposing the delicate length of your throat – as you down your shot.

The bitter taste of liquorice fills your mouth and when you stick your tongue out it isn’t just for show. He hasn’t moved an inch – though his shoulders are visibly tense.

“No one else seemed to struggle with you,” he says, and you can’t help the smile that drags at the corners of your mouth.

“Oh, don’t pout,” you say, voice dragging with a playful trill. You reach out for the Mandalorian’s shot glass – _untouched_ – and raise it in a mock toast, holding eye contact with the visor on his helmet, “It’s just the two of us now.”

You feel his eyes on you, as you throw back the second shot. You feel his gaze linger as you make your way around the bar, and as you approach you are again struck by the size of him; feeling downright small in comparison.

“I shouldn’t keep you,” you say, leaning into him with your hands pressed flat against his beskar plated chest. “you don’t have all night – the child could wake up at any moment, and wouldn’t that be _awful_?”

And there it is; the sense of guilt you’ve been waiting for – you see it practically shudder through his body. There’s something about this situation that’s simply _wrong_ – and the Mandalorian knows it even as his strong hands close around your waist. You’re not the only one in trouble here – you’re not the only one spiralling out of control.

The thought is intoxicating.

You allow your hands to fall in a familiar way; dragging down the Mandalorian’s chest, and finding purchase against his hips as you begin to sink to your knees. The last encounter is still so fresh in your mind. Truthfully you’ve thought about this almost every night since; the thrill never once wearing thin. You don’t managed to reach the ground before he has his fingers tangled in your hair, stopping you from moving.

The pain shoots through you like electricity – absolutely thrilling – as you’re pushed back by your hair. He guides you backwards until you feel the hard edge of a table against you lower back.

“What was it you said last time?” he asks, voice less than a whisper. There’s a playful edge there that tells you you’re in more trouble than you’d realised. “Something about the tables?”

His hand leaves your hair – both coming to rest again on your waist as he physically _lifts you_ to sit at the edge of the table. His hands shift slowly, moving to your hips before he’s gripping your thighs – pulling them apart to make room.

You can feel him already growing hard against you – the weight of it _thrilling_ where it’s pressed against you stomach. You feel as though you’re losing it – and it’s a strain to reach an arm around the back of his neck; pulling him close to lay a wet kiss against his helmet where his mouth would be.

You make a show of it; letting out a sharp exhale as your eyes slip closed. You arch your back – pressing your body against his as an exaggerated moan tumbles out of your throat.

He presses into you – _hard_ – in response; the outline of his thick length grinding harsh against you. You get your free hand around him – shaking as your fingers barely come close to covering him. You stroke sloppily through his pants; some part of you desperate to make an absolute mess, while your own body is begging for more.

When you pull back from the fake kiss, you’re actually short of breath. You can feel cheeks are red and warm, while your lips are wet and messy.

“This isn’t quite what I had in mind,” you gasp; fumbling to undo the Mandalorian’s pants.

The longer you wait, it feels as though there’s a hunger eating you up inside.

“I didn’t _ask_ what you wanted,” he says. His voice melts into a groan as you manage to free his hard cock. The sentiment is still there – it has you practically melting to think what he might do to you.

You wrap your fingers around his length – body _aching_ at the size of it. You want to draw this out; every inch of you wanting this to last _forever_ , but the stifled moan that shudders through the Mandalorian’s body has you moving your hand in long strokes. Your hand doesn’t close around the thicket part and your mouth practically waters at the taste of old memories.

You feel your lips slightly parted, and tongue poking out _just so_ as your thumb brushes over the head; collecting drops of precum against your blunt nail.

You take a shuddering breath through your mouth – hopelessly turned on without being _touched_. You think maybe it’s all in your head; you’ve built this moment up so much, even the thought of him can set you off, and now that you’re here again you’re certain given enough time you’d be messing yourself up with barely any stimulation.

That’s not to say you don’t want it – _stars_ you’d give anything for just a little _more_ – and when he raises an ungloved hand to your mouth, you part your lips with an embarrassing eagerness; taking two fingers inside with no hesitation.

You hear his sharp intake of breath as he presses flat against your tongue – a deep, rumbling moan as he rocks forward into your slowing hand. You’re not sure what to focus on; trying to keep up with the pace of his impatient movements – you almost choke when he pushes his fingers down your throat.

_“Fuck.”_

You hear the word leave his mouth like a threat of violence, when your throat contracts around his fingers. He doesn’t hold back – doesn’t wait for you to recover before he’s pushing further; breaking right past your gag reflex.

“Good boy,” he groans, and you think maybe you should have practised. You close your mouth; lips resting wet against his knuckles, and swallow desperately against his fingers.

By now your mouth is a mess, saliva pooling at the corners of your lips, dripping messy along your cheeks and chin. The thought drives a fire through you; burning hot beneath your skin and you let out a needy whine when the Mandalorian starts to pull his hand away.

You feel bereft when your throat is empty, and your free hand jumps up to grip the Mandalorian’s wrist. You squeeze your eyes shut; shame clouding your vision in the best way as you lean forward to swipe your tongue over his fingertips.

He digs his clean hand into your hair to pull you off and you can feel the disapproval in his stare. It makes you shrink into yourself; a burning desire to be _good_ , and to prove it.

 _“Brat.”_ The word rumbles through his chest and you wonder if you’d heard right, but he’s using his grip on your hair to force you off the table, and you find yourself unable to think once he has you bent over.

“Take them off.”

He’s barely finished saying the words before you’re working your pants undone single-handedly – using the other hand to hold yourself up against the table. The action is made no easier when he pushes against you; hard cock rubbing against your clothed ass.

“Come-on, I don’t have all night.”

His tone has softened somewhat and you thank the stars for your forethought; having worn no underwear in the hopes that this might happen.

As soon as you’ve wriggled your pants down to your knees, the Mandalorian’s hands are on you; digging strong fingers into your round ass, and startling you with a sharp _slap._ Not enough to hurt, but exactly enough to get your attention.

Bent over the table this way, only the very tips of your toes reach the ground. You have no way to brace yourself when the Mandalorian’s spit slick fingers begin to prod at your entrance. You’re impatient – you want it so bad you’re afraid it might consume you. But you have no way to push back – no way to speed things up. You can only stay draped across the table, while the Mandalorian applies _barely any pressure_ to your needy hole.

 _“Hurry up,”_ you say, stretching the words out to a breathless whine.

You earn another harsh smack for your efforts; this time the force presses you hard against the table and a gasp of air fills your lungs.

 _“Shit,”_ you feel the very pleasant sting against your ass where you’ve been struck. You know what he wants from you – the thought has your stomach melting from the heat. _“Please.”_

“Good boy,” he croons, rubs a soothing hand against your sore ass, while pushing the first finger inside.

It’s unexpected, and the feeling is somewhat _raw._ His fingers are much thicker than your own, and you’re not used to being stretched so quickly. He isn’t nice about it – you don’t want him to be; _nice_ would have your tearing your hair out at a time like this. He pushes in all the way, pushes down against your rim; pulling you further open with the tip of a single finger. You can feel the stretch – can feel it viscerally as he takes his time exploring your insides; never quite touching where you need him. You’re on a constant, teetering edge and your body is constantly screaming _not enough_ , until finally you’re begging;

_“More.”_

he makes a sound from behind you – derisive even as he’s pressing another finger inside.

“Greedy,” he murmurs, almost to himself. There’s a dizzying edge of excitement in his voice and he takes even less care with the second finger. You don’t have time to get used to it before he’s pushing a third finger inside, and you feel like you’re coming apart.

He pushes his fingers into you, in long, slow movements. Every languid pull has your body shuddering – closing up and trying to drag him back inside. It has him groaning; grinding his dripping cock against your hip and you _know_ neither of you will last long after he finally pushes in. You’ve had this on your mind for far too long – spent every spare waking second with nothing but this Mandalorian on your mind; mourning the fact that you’d never gotten a chance to take him for a ride. Evidentially he had been thinking the same thing; and that drives you crazy.

You almost _cry_ when he pulls his fingers out – uncertain if you’re relieved or _desperate._ Your body feels so open – so incredibly _empty_ – and you thrill at just the touch of his strong hand steady against your hip.

“You ready?” he asks, and you could _scream_ at the feel of his wet cockhead against your open hole.

 _“Please,”_ you gasp out.

Your entire body is burning with the effort to stay pressed against the table. Your own aching cock is trapped hard and leaking against the wood. You’re so close you can taste it on the very tip of your tongue.

“You ready to take it like a good boy?”

 _“_ Fuck _– yes!”_

Your voice breaks off into a bitten of scream as the Mandalorian’s thick cock breaches your body. He pushes in all the way, not once letting your body rest, and when he’s done you think you can taste him in the back of your throat.

You wonder deliriously if that’s possible. Surely if you were able to lift your hand to your stomach you would feel something there.

He’s breathless when he next speaks; hips moving in short, aborted thrusts against your body – only serving to push his cock deeper inside; rubbing against every inch of you, and forcing stars behind your vision.

“Is this okay?” he spits the words out; holds a bruising grip against your hips and stays as still as possible.

You want to yell and scream. You want to say something that will get you into trouble. you want to take back even an ounce of control. Instead you give in.

“don’t stop,” you say, “Please, please, don’t stop. _Not now.”_

That seems to be enough, and you can barely breath as the Mandalorian pulls back – leaving you feeling awful and _empty_ – before he pushes back inside; a satisfied groan rumbling through his chest.

He sets a quick pace after that first thrust; pushing into you with enough strength to force the air from your lungs each time.

Everything is too much; the terrible friction of his thick cock dragging against your insides; the feel of your own over-sensitive length dragging against your stomach – you’re short of breath, light-headed; you’re being consumed from the inside, every inch of you a roaring flame.

You’re so close to that dangerous edge; every thrust a not-so-gentle push. You can tell he’s almost there too; his hips are stuttering, thrusts becoming uneven and pressing in much deeper than before – a primal instinct to bury himself as deep inside as possible before he makes a mess of you.

Your mouth is already open but you can’t feel your tongue. You can’t wrap your mouth around the words to tell him that you’re almost there and so it’s a complete surprise when a startlingly accurate thrust sends you over. Your body shudders and tenses – you can feel every inch of his cock where it’s buried _so deep inside of you._ Your body clenches down around the Mandalorian as you cum all over the table and when you come down you feel the last hot spurts of his cum leaking inside you.

The Mandalorian barely stops short of collapsing against you; catching himself with his hands slamming down beside your head. His breaths come out ragged; and you feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back.

A small laugh leaves your throat.

“I’ll have to start charging you,” you say between gasps of air, “if you keep coming back.”

He begins to lift himself.

“I’ll make sure to bring extra credits next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on tumblr @softdramahoe  
> i actually have a lot of ideas very similar to this, and a lot of ideas very different. suffice to say i am full of ideas and if left unchecked i WILL destroy the world with the power of my imagination.  
> having said that, i've been having an unbelievably shit time recently so if you enjoyed make sure to let me know.


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